


Three to four weeks

by WetSammyWinchester



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cooking, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post Episode: s13e15 A Most Holy Man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-25 00:47:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14367297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WetSammyWinchester/pseuds/WetSammyWinchester
Summary: It’s been two weeks of hanging around the Bunker after they found theirmost holy man, and there’s only so much filing and reading Sam can do. But he can’t complain too much about downtime. He gets to watch Dean cook.





	Three to four weeks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [YohKoBennington](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YohKoBennington/gifts).



> Written for [YohKoBennington](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YohKoBennington/works?fandom_id=27) during spn springfling for their lovely prompt of _I want to feed you, nourish you, take care of you. Not because you can't take care of yourself, of course, but because you shouldn't have to._
> 
> Thanks to [nigeltde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nigeltde/pseuds/nigeltde/works?fandom_id=27) for the beta. Your comments and friendship mean so much.

The canteen table top is overflowing with stacks of books and Sam’s open laptop. Dean teases him about it - how Sam takes over the table, how they have a library for research and books, and how his brother can’t just relax and drink a beer - but Sam settles in anyway. 

He shifts the computer to one side and begins to sort through the smallest pile of books with a sigh. He should find them a case. It’s been two weeks of hanging around the Bunker after they found their _most holy man_ , and he’s updated every note in their files, sorted through some unlabelled curses boxes in the storage room (meticulously, with tongs), and found a box of Bobby’s books that had been sitting in the garage for five years. 

Sam picks up one of the books, old and falling apart in his hands, smelling of Sioux Falls, and flips through its gilt-edged pages, but his eyes can’t help but track Dean as he cracks open an egg and stirs it with his fingers into a mountain of flour. It’s a thick paste that covers the cutting board but slowly it becomes a smooth ball of dough under his brother’s hands.

Sam’s book dips as he watches Dean slide the dough back and forth across the wood, digging the heels of his palms in and then flipping it over with a soft slap. He’s efficient as he moves around the kitchen as if Dean had been trained as a chef instead of bussing dishes at greasy spoons for a few summers when they were in high school. 

Dean sprinkles loose flour across the top of the board and the dough, then wipes his hands on the white towel thrown over his shoulders. His plaid shirt is dusty with it and rolled up to the elbows, and Sam tries to turn back to his book but the muscle in Dean’s forearm keeps flexing with every pass.

There’s an easy beauty to these common things. They have a home now. He should be used to it but these things that Dean surrounds himself with, the cookbooks and utensils and aprons, are still exotic to Sam.

“Whatcha reading?” Dean asks as he wipes his hands again and sips from his beer.

Sam shows him the cover and Dean squints at the flaked-off gold lettering. _The Golden Path_.

“Catholic text of Bobby’s, fourteenth century. Kind of cryptic. And judgemental. But I found some passages about nephilim.”

Dean’s eyes move over Sam’s face, searching for something before worry settles onto his skin like the fine flour dust in the air. Jack and Mary and all that’s happened to them in the last few months lies heavy in that look, and Sam doesn’t want to pick up that weight, so he turns his attention back to reading.

 _“Anche in paradiso non è bello essere soli,”_ he reads out loud. _“_ Even in paradise it is not good to be alone.”

“That’s not Latin.”

“It’s Old Italian.”

Dean grunts out some kind of impressed response to that and makes a final turn of the dough ball in his hands.

“Whatcha making?” Sam asks, once more distracted by Dean's fingers as they smooth the top a final time.

His brother’s face cracks into a smile, the open one Sam loves that has nothing to do with their day jobs, and the layer of worry falls away. 

“Thought I’d try lasagna.”

“Wait, you’re making lasagna from scratch?” 

Dean hums back his agreement as he flattens the dough out. “Turns out it's not that tough to make. A little sausage, a little cheese and a lot of sauce.” He pats the industrial Kitchenaid mixer next to him on the counter, the one he reconditioned last week while they waited out this lull in new cases. “Meet my new best friend in the kitchen, Sam. Supercharged and ready to roll out some pasta.”

Sam watches with curiosity as Dean fixes a silver attachment to the mixer’s shaft, wondering how that will work, and then turns back to his reading. Jack may be gone but if they could figure out some way to communicate with him perhaps he could help to open the rift from the other side.

Dean’s shoulders and back move as he lifts the pasta strips to run them through the press again and again, and Sam finds it hard to focus on what these dusty clerics had to say.

The kitchen is warm and comfortable from the oven and the smells of basil and tomatoes make Sam’s stomach grumble. Dean stirs the pot of sauce on the cooktop that has been simmering for an hour and adds a bit more basil, while Sam turns back once more to his book.

“How about a taste?” Dean blows on the spoonful of sauce as he walks over, before extending it to Sam.

Sam opens his mouth, and Dean slides the spoon in, spilling a drop on his chin. “It’s really good,” he says around the mouthful, surprised at the bright flavor of the tomatoes. Dean smiles again and Sam’s heart kicks up a bit as usual, before Dean scoops up the drop of red with his thumb and presses it between Sam’s lips. He turns to go but Sam grabs his wrist, bringing him down for a kiss.

“Don’t know why you’re making a big dish of lasagna. We’ll be gone in a few days on a case. It’ll all go to waste.”

Dean pauses, the spoon hanging forgotten in his hand, and he grabs the back of Sam’s neck, pulling him into another kiss. Sam relaxes into it, letting out a sigh as Dean massages his neck while deepening the kiss. He recognizes this, the intent behind the skill of Dean’s tongue and lips; he knows all of his brother’s moves including this one.

He pulls back for air. “Dean?”

Dean’s pupils are dark and his lips are open, and Sam thinks he’ll try the distraction kiss again, but instead says, “Just one more week, Sam.”

Dean steps back to the cooktop, not waiting for a response, dutifully layering the sauce and the pasta, sprinkling the meat and cheese in between the sheets, as Sam’s thoughts begin to click into place.

They’ve kept busy the last two weeks. While Sam sorted and filed and read, Dean gave Baby an oil change in the garage, installed a Keg-a-rator in his new bar, and then reconditioned a goddamn antique kitchen mixer. One more week? His brother should be pushing to get on the road, not making pasta.

Sam closes the book and sets it aside. He makes his way to the refrigerator, eyes on Dean the whole time; pulls two beers out and pops the caps.

“Dean, why are we still here?” Sam hands the other beer to Dean and their fingers meet. Sam leans back against the prep table as Dean ignores him to put the casserole dish in the oven and take off the oven mitts.

“What? You mean in the kitchen? Because it’s dinnertime.”

Sam rolls his eyes and grabs at Dean as he passes, pulls him in by the wrist to where he easily slots between Sam’s legs. “Tell me. What happens in a week?”

“Aw, Sam, let it drop. Can’t you just enjoy a little time off?”

“All that research you have me doing. The curse boxes. And something to tap your keg?”

Dean smiles and shakes his finger. “Got to admit, that’s awesome.”

“Fine.” Sam waves his hand to get them back on track. “That aside, there are cases out there, and Mom and Jack—“

Dean's face closes up as he tucks Sam’s hair behind his ears. Fingers move gently through Sam’s hair, stroking at the back of his skull. “We’re still working on getting ‘em back, I promise. But if I don’t take care of you, it’s all pointless.”

“What?” Sam whispers. “What is that supposed to mean?”

He tries to twist his head away, but Dean holds on. Dean always holds on. 

The kitchen is suddenly too warm and the touch on his skin too soft. Tenderness and soft touches tense Sam like a bow, and he learned early to dread it. People treat you like a bruise when wounds are too deep. Afraid to touch and hold. People are tender in times of grief or pity, and Sam isn’t grieving, not yet, and he doesn’t want anyone’s pity. Especially not Dean’s.

He starts to leave but Dean flips their position against the prep table, and pulls Sam between his legs. His grip is strong, one hand on each of Sam’s hips, thumbs digging in at the bone to hold him in place, and it helps the tension to leave Sam’s body. 

“Listen to me,” Dean says and Sam scoffs, but doesn’t move away. Dean pulls his head around so they are eye to eye, and bumps their noses. Sam wants to go back to hiding behind his books and his research, not under this spotlight.

“I’m not broken,” he blurts out. Dean freezes.

“Of course, you’re not broken, Sam. You’re in--”

Sam can feel the heat move up his cheeks. “If you say ‘a dark place’ again, I’m walking out of here.” 

“It’s not like that,” Dean says, squeezing Sam’s hips in punctuation to his words. “What I was going to say is, you’re in a situation where you’ve taken a lot of hits to the head--”

“Oh, please, we take hits all the time. Don’t treat me like I’m some kind of fragile tea cup.” 

The corners of Dean’s mouth turn down and but he continues to hold on, determined not to let Sam walk out of his little Concussions 101 pep talk.

“That’s true. And normally, I wouldn’t worry. But I can see you… losing faith.”

Sam raises his eyebrows. “So, you installed a Keg-a-rator because you don’t want me to lose faith?”

“Well, no.” Dean’s lips quirk back up, and Sam, despite his anger or because of it, wants to kiss the soft fondness right off of them. “That’s for me.”

“So, that’s what you were doing? Keeping me quiet for three to four weeks? Making sure my head isn’t busted.”

Dean’s cheeks color. “Would that be such a bad thing? That jackass in Seattle knocked you out cold, and you never take it easy when I ask you…” His eyes flick to the ceiling, where Sam can’t meet them, and he takes a breath. This pause means something but Sam can’t pull the memory to go with it, and now it’s Dean’s turn to push away. He cleans off the cutting board and counter, attacking it with a sponge to wipe the crumbs into his hand, before throwing all of it into the trash can. He whips the towel off his shoulder and turns to face Sam.

“Dammit, why can’t a guy make his little brother lasagna without getting the third degree?”

Sam can’t stay angry, never can, so he takes his seat back at the canteen table and picks up Bobby’s book again.

“How much time do we have before it’s done? Maybe I can get through this.”

Dean nods, distracted as he checks the lasagna in the oven and puts the mixer parts in the sink. He turns on the faucet and adds the soap, watching the bubbles rise to the point where Sam can see them, before he answers.

“One more week, Sam. I’ll make you pot roast with potatoes. You can tell me things in Latin. I’ll even watch those subtitled movies on Netflix that you love. But one more week, okay?”

Sam looks down at the book in his hands and a string of the words jump out. _A ogni uccello il suo nido è bello_. To every bird, his own nest is beautiful. His shoulders relax and he lets out a long breath.

“Okay, but no pot roast. Chicken and dumplings. Like Pastor Jim used to make when we were kids.” His eyes flick up from the page to catch the corner of Dean’s smile.

“Sure, Sam. Chicken and dumplings. You got it.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm over on tumblr too if you want to reblog this. [Here's the post](http://wetsammywinchester.tumblr.com/post/173094749647/three-to-four-weeks) and thanks for reading!


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